


false lights for the sun

by ukiyo91, yukonecho (yavanna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavanna/pseuds/yukonecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not really <i>hate sex</i>, Reims thinks as he licks a stripe up Bernie's neck. <br/>Or, tender, loving sad-sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	false lights for the sun

**Author's Note:**

> yukonecho: *cue Reims slamming Bernie into a bed and fucking him*  
> ukiyo: YES, WRITE GOALIE PORN  
> ukiyo: IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO TAKE A WALK ON MY SIDE OF THE TRACKS  
> yukonecho: it’s going to be weird, introspective, rough sex  
> ukiyo: I can write a mean rim job  
> yukonecho: yes, I need your rim job skills  
> ukiyo: it may actually be a _mean_ rim job
> 
> (but after that beautiful pun, we ended up writing totally not-mean sex that is instead sad and tender.)
> 
> its working title was _optimus reim is a service top (and also a wall)_.
> 
> title from [Artificial Nocturne by Metric](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02iETa6aUAA).
> 
> this is also rooted in Reims telling himself “Be good, Reims. Be good.” in HBO 24/7, which broke our collective hearts.

It's not really _hate sex_ , Reims thinks as he licks a stripe up Bernie's neck. He has a hand holding Bernie’s wrists above his head, is standing behind him with a hand on his hip, pulling him closer.

Reims just wants to bite, and his teeth are merciless, getting into the thick of his shoulder blade and sinking in. Bernie lets out a moan, maybe a little bit gaspy in that way Reims likes April to sound, like he can’t help himself. It makes him feel strong, unbeatable, and he claims something for himself, gripping hard at Bernie’s waist and pushing him harder against the wall. The bed is too far away.

“Fucking get it, Reims,” Bernie tells him, low and throaty and Reims fucking does, thrusting hard against him, a frustrated kind of pleasure in the chafing of his jeans against his junk and the friction of his pelvis against Bernie’s ass. They rock for long moments, and Reims wraps a long arm tightly around Bernie’s body so he can press his palm against Bernie’s waist, halting his movements so he can control the flow, staccatic and rough. With his other hand he presses hard against Bernie’s denim-clad crotch. Reims knows he could make them both come like this, and has before, but tonight he feels that strange mix of frantic desire and headspace, and he’s content to let this go as long as Bernie needs it to, and not a moment more. And Bernie says, once Reims feels at that edge, half of him thinking _too soon, too soon_ and the other half urging him to just finish, “Enough, Reims.” And Reims stops, panting.

It’s easy to focus on the sweat that pools in the divot between Bernie’s shoulderblades, leading vertical down his spine; easier to focus on his harsh breaths and the clench of his hands against Bernie’s biceps than it is to think about the rank smell of the locker room, or the boos of the crowd, or that miserable, choking feeling in his gut at the thought of all the people he’s letting down, his wife’s patient looks, or the young kid inside who spent hours outside letting Mark shoot at him, exhilarated at every save. So instead he focuses on what’s good--and what’s good is Bernie, beneath him, all around him. Slides their pants down, away, without thought. It’s just skin with them now, skin and thoughts and hands, holding, pressing.

Bernie sighs, harsh, and Reims listens, sinks in, centers himself. It’s a focus he finds here and in the crease, and Reims’ world narrows down to Bernie’s skin, paler now than it was when he first arrived from Los Angeles; Bernie’s breath, like it’s in his ear even though Reims is pressed up against his back; muscles rippling under him, fluid in motion following his own. Reims’ own muscles, strong, press into Bernie, and Reims revels in how Bernie flows with him as he moves.

But it’s a sign, one Reims is familiar with, and he knows what Bernie wants. He lets Bernie wait for a long moment, bites at his earlobe and slides his palms across Bernie’s hips, thumbs catching on his bones. He’s doing this as much for himself as for Bernie, letting the anticipation stretch and intensify, pull him in closer until pushing Bernie up against the wall isn’t enough for either of them. In a swift motion, he pulls Bernie away from the wall and pushes him down onto the bed, fingers splayed out between Bernie’s shoulder blades.

Reims sucks in a breath and cracks the knuckles of his free hand, then crawls up behind Bernie, straddling his legs, and drags his thumb down Bernie’s spine, waiting for murmurs of appreciation before kissing each one. Bernie relaxes, and Reims does, too, when he can tell that he’s helping Bernie. That he’s making it good for Bernie. And his own stress falls away too, until he can focus on Bernie and nothing else.

Sometimes, Bernie doesn’t shower before they do this. Sometimes, it’s dirty and filthy and Reims comes so hard he feels like he’s 15 again. Tonight, Reims had taken longer than usual to knock on Bernie’s door, spent some time hearing April’s soft voice in his ear, her gentle words of support not quite enough to knit together the _thing_ inside of him that was coming apart at the seams. Bernie ties up the knot in his chest, with his careful dark eyes and quick little smile and his strong body, willingly pliant before him. Reims just wants to lose himself for a few moments. It’s good for him to do something useful, something good that gets rewarded with sighs and moans, not boos. He needs Bernie to know what he can take, to tell Reims how to make this the best, knows that Bernie needs this too, needs to be able to tell him, “Good, that’s good, Reims.”

He leans in, face pressing against Bernie’s opening and touches his hole softly with his tongue. It contracts around him and Bernie makes a high-pitched noise, already wanting. Reims pushes deeper, satisfied with the gentle give of muscle and eases back to give a long, thorough lap of his crease. He kisses there, a brief _thank you_ for giving Reims this, exactly what he needs. He then presses his tongue flat against the same spot, tracing the area in a more elaborate trail. Reims looks up, in time to see Bernie press his hand over his own face, covering his mouth. Reims feels the muscles of Bernie’s legs shaking, and reaches a hand up to steady him, or himself against him, he doesn’t know. He lets himself go, ignoring his own throbbing cock and letting his eyes close, absorbing only the smell and taste of this hidden part of Bernie, that no one sees, so private it makes this good Canadian boy blush when he thinks about it sometimes on the bus, or in bed with April, whispering it to her shyly and feeling the shift of her hands as she touches herself. Here, he can lose himself in the practiced rhythm of pleasing somebody else, taking direction when needed, usually in a hissed _deeper_ , or with a hand on his head, calm and unyielding, guiding him to a safe place.

He laps once more at Bernie’s opening and then presses in again, feeling the give and letting his tongue move within the constricted space. He can feel the saliva dripping down from the corner of his mouth as he continues to move, in and out, letting the pace relax him, everything loose except the muscle of his tongue. He wants to get in everywhere he can, fill in the spaces that are empty, that have felt empty inside of him since Reims saw Carlyle give Bernie the nod this evening. So he applies himself thoroughly, making sure he wrings every gasp, every aborted movement of Bernie’s body. Reims lets his hand travel down from Bernie’s chest, scratching slightly at the dark path of hair that leads down to his cock, which he grasps and begins to tug. He pulls as he pushes his tongue, setting a rhythm that is simultaneously soft and hard. He feels fingers move from his scalp to glide over the sensitive strip of flesh at his neck where his helmet and jersey usually leave bare. In a game, it’s one of his most vulnerable spots; fitting that Bernie knows it so well, and as his fingers press firm against him, he’s reminded of the varying shades of vulnerability.

“Up, buddy,” he hears softly, and Reims reluctantly moves his head away from Bernie’s opening to regard the man, knowing that his face looks flushed and wet, his eyes blown dark with wanting. Bernie looks far too calm, but Reims likes that sometimes, that he can touch these secret places on his body but it’s Bernie who sees the secrets beneath Reims’ own flesh, knows them like he knows the net behind him, constant, in need of safeguarding.

He waits, and Bernie doesn’t make him wait long, looking at him and seeing what Reims is too shy to ask. His anger, so potent and tinged with hurt, is a distant memory. Bernie knows to let him burn a bit, like a candle whose wax has melted into something soft and malleable.

“Get me wet, Reims,” Bernie tells him and Reims understands, detaches from his body as he gets up and moves to the suitcase, knowing with certainty that in the side zip pocket there will be a bottle that neither of them forgets when they’re on road trips. He doesn’t remember the short walk back, feels somewhat awake only when he faces Bernie’s hole again, applying lube around the pucker and inserting one, two fingers inside of him, stretching gently and then with more purpose. Bernie watches him silently, his face as impassive as it is on the ice. It’s the work of a few minutes, but time seems to float for Reims, and when he’s ready, Bernie positions him just the way he wants to, Reims laying flat on the bed and Bernie hovering over him. He feels the rubbery texture of the condom encase him, and then the slick, cool feeling of lube as Bernie gets him wet. And then it’s blunt, wonderful pressure, as Bernie takes his time sinking down on top of him.

Bernie’s face, normally stoic, _expresses_ in a way Reims sees only here, and he’s filled with pride that he did this, he made Bernie feel like this. Bernie looks down, licking his lips, and smiles that small, quick smirk, like he knows what Reims is thinking. But then he’s moving, slow rolls of his hips, and it’s all Reims can do to hold on as his eyes slide back in his head.

His hands are tight, maybe too tight, on Bernie’s hips, but Bernie’s moans are drowning out everything in Reims’ head that he doesn’t like: he can’t hear the boos of the crowd, can’t hear Carlyle say _I’m benching you_ , can’t hear his own thoughts telling him that he’s not enough. Bernie’s moans take up his focus, as he thrusts up lightly to meet the rolls of Bernie’s hips, sees Bernie’s eyes hover on his before he closes them and Reims feels like he can _feel_ the rumble of Bernie’s voice.

Reims takes a deep breath, then takes Bernie’s hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses the tips of his fingers, heart pounding as Bernie just looks at him and blinks as he continues to move up and down. Bernie won’t bend for him, so Reims reaches up, feeling a slight burn in his abdominals as his tilts his face up, waiting, hoping. Bernie seems to understand, leaning down so their lips can meet in a slow kiss, one that starts and lingers and almost stops, but then Bernie’s tongue is there, wet and _taking_ , and Reims is more than happy to let him, to give whatever he can.

Now that he’s sitting up, Bernie’s fingers splay across his back, warm and dry against his tight, slightly feverish skin. A leg hooks around his hip, anchoring him to Bernie’s body and Reims moans. The physicality of this, of Bernie this close, pushing back against him, fingers tugging at his thin, vulnerable skin, so easily torn and bruised, so easily pierced with the hatred and scorn of a city that won’t let him rest. He smells the sweat of Bernie and Bernie’s shampoo and the sheets in the hotel room. They scratch underneath him, but he can’t possibly mind it, not when Bernie is leaning in to whisper, “That’s good, that’s so good. You’re so good.”

He’s a wall. Allaire told him to be a wall, and that’s what he is, what he can be in front of the net and for Bernie; something to push against. Sometimes he dreams he’s strong and unyielding, able to take any applied force, able to withstand the torrent of his failures, of his aspirations. He doesn’t know which one is stronger, which one hurts more. Reims doesn’t know if he’s breathing, the overwhelming sensation of Bernie clenching around him. Bernie doesn’t let him dwell, though, reaching down and taking Reims’ hand, forcing him to take their combined weight on the other, and bringing it down, sliding through crinkly hairs and then down, down. Bernie’s body bucks, and he makes soft noises as he works himself faster, harder on Reims’ cock, as though he knows something Reims doesn’t, as though he knows how close Reims is when Reims can only feel himself sinking further into something deep in his core. Reims knows where to direct his thumb, and he does, that wonderful sweet spot under the head that will make Bernie shiver, and he’s just so tight Reims can’t do anything but gasp and pant and then

\--he comes.

If he sobs, he can’t tell. If Bernie takes pleasure in his collapse, he can’t tell. If Bernie is disappointed in his performance, he can’t tell. All Reims knows is relief, the unloading of something tangible in his heart as he releases himself into Bernie.

Bernie waits patiently, lets him wring himself out, mindless and needy. And then he lifts himself off of Reims’ cock, pushing him back down flat and kneeling over him, tugging at his own cock and making sure Reims cannot look away, as if he ever would. Reims thinks Bernie is beautiful like this, naked and not-smiling. His eyes are black and the flop of hair on top of his head is messy from where Reims’ hands have combed it. The rise and fall of his chest makes Reims want to lick him all over, to touch him all over. He takes a deep breath. After all this anticipation, after all the work he’s put in, this is the most gratifying. He doesn’t let himself worry about what he should be doing, about where he should move his body, about where his hands should go. All he can do, all Bernie _needs_ him to do, is just watch, and he does so with rapt attention as Bernie’s breath stutters, his body jerks and his release splashes over Reims’ neck and face.

There’s a moment, the smell of spunk in the air and the feeling of blissful completion coursing through Reims’ body, that he wonders if this time Bernie will just get up and wait for him to leave, like the first time they did this. Before he know the shape of this thing between them, the shape of his own desires, which lay dormant in his heart. But now, Bernie leans forward, sliding across Reims’ chest, letting their legs twine together, letting Reims wrap his arms around his shoulders and accept his kiss. Reims feels Bernie smile into it, and somehow that hits him good, and he finally allows the haze in his mind to take over completely, surrendering himself to the space where Reims only sometimes lets himself go to. It makes him wants to burrow within Bernie’s flushed skin, to get as close and as deep as he can. This is enough. It’s always been enough.

After, Reims barely notices as Bernie nudges him into the shower, wiping him down with gentle, calloused hands. He holds onto Bernie like he’s a puck, like letting go will mean losing his last link out of his head, last chance, and he can’t let go until he’s sure he can find his way out again. Some days he wonders, absently, if he’ll ever get lost absolutely, become the wall, for this is the detachment that goaltending requires, and it’s only in the postgame, surrounded by his teammates, that he can be pulled out. How well would he play, Reims muses, if he were never to leave this headspace? Never to have trouble _getting in the zone_ again, because he’d always be there? Stuck?

He knows he won’t.

For now, he’s happy to let Bernie reward him for doing well, happy to let the touches and strokes of Bernie’s hand holding the soap tell him _you won, Reims._

_You did good._

**Author's Note:**

> [tunes!](http://8tracks.com/yukonecho/false-lights-for-the-sun)


End file.
